The Legend of the Warrior
by jsk
Summary: A young Klingon learns about the Federation...


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DISCLAIMER: "Star Trek" is the copyrighted by Paramount, and Paramount  
owns Star Trek and the Star Trek Universe. The following story is   
not-for-profit.  
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Legend of the Warrior  
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(c) Jasjit Singh, December 1996   
  
The young Klingon boy was not at ease. He kept shifting his gaze from one  
of the elders to the next, expecting each of them in turn to address him  
and answer his question. And yet, they remained silent, their faces as if  
carved in stone, eyes closed, humming that ancient Klingon war-ballad. Yet,  
all were at peace. These grey haired old men were the honored warriors of  
the planet. All the Klingons held them in the highest esteem. Thats why the  
young boy was so hesitant to come ask them his question. His name was Raoul  
-- a name given to him by his parents to make him more "acceptable" to the  
Humans in the colony of planets known as the "Federation". To Raoul, the  
Federation was just a name, and he was beginning to despise the sound of  
it. His parents wanted him to join the Federation eventually, when he was  
of age; they said he would make a "fine soldier". He would attend  
"Starfleet Academy", whatever that was. Raoul was disgusted. He much  
preferred playing with his friends, and acting out the ancient battle  
stories of Kah-less. And secretly he had adopted the Klingon name "Kamwah",  
meaning "the end of it". It denoted the end of a long and difficult battle,  
in which he would be the victor. Raoul (Kamwah) cherished the feeling of  
victory that came after a long struggle. Among his friends he was known as  
Kamwah.  
  
One day as he was playing, his father had passed by the group of boys  
duelling in the fields, and had heard his son called by the name of  
"Kamwah". Upon reaching home, Kamwah found his father seated in a chair  
silently, waiting.  
  
"What is wrong, father?" asked Kamwah, thinking that his father may be ill.  
"I want to ask you something," said his father, in a slow, measured voice.  
"Yes, father?"  
"What is your name?"  
"Raoul"  
His father asked him again, "What is your name?"  
"Raoul"  
His father asked him a third time "What is your name?"  
"Raoul"  
  
Upon this his father stood up and slapped the boy with the back of his  
hand. Kamwah staggered from the impact of the blow but remained on his  
feet. He looked up to face his father, whose eyes were angry.  
  
"My name," began Kamwah, "is Kamwah, he who is victorious after the long  
and difficult battle."  
  
His father was shocked. Traditionally in Klingon culture, a son took his  
name after his fathers. As Kamwah's father had done, his name became Jorel,  
son of Nepachur. And so Jorel had expected his son to call himself Kamwah,  
son of Jorel. But Kamwah had reverted to the older style of naming  
conventions, in the days when War was the only thing that held any meaning  
for Klingons, and they killed without mercy, ruthlessly ravaging planet  
after planet.  
  
Kamwah looked into his fathers eyes.  
"Would you strike me for being a Klingon, and not a weak 'human' as you  
want me to be?" he asked defiantly.  
"No," said Jorel, stunned, "I would strike you dishonoring your father. And  
perhaps these 'humans' are not so weak as you may think they are. Have you  
ever heard the story of the Klingon called Worf, the son of Maug? He did  
what no other Klingon has done in the history of our Empire."  
"There have been many warriors. . . " began Kamwah with an air or superior  
knowledge. But Jorel cut him off.  
"Perhance your old father is not so old as you think. Or maybe he is older  
still, and has good wisdom. Listen now, you who profess to be a follower of  
the great Kah-less. It was Kah-less himself who appeared to Worf in a  
vision, when Worf was but a child. That is how he was guided into his lifes  
mission. And do you know about the death of Worf? Ohhh, it was a glorious  
death!"  
  
Kamwah looked at his father talking. He had never seen this old man talk  
this way before. It was a strange feeling that filled him with a pride he  
had never had for his father. He began to realize that his father was  
indeed a warrior, but a retired one, who did not wish to die the death that  
Klingons die. Kamwah shrugged. People said these were advanced times, and  
that those were the "old" ways, but he still thought that there was nothing  
more glorious than an honorable death. He listened as his father went on.  
"If you truly desire to know about Worf, and his life in the Federation,  
yes, he was in the Federation, go ask the elders a question about him. They  
will set you straight."  
  
And so it was that Kamwah found himself seated before the three elders.  
They had said nothing, though, even though he had been there for over a  
half hour. Klingons are not noted for their patience, and so Kamwah was  
almost about to get up and leave. Eventually, however, one of the elders, a  
tall, lean man, stirred, and opened his eyes. He looked at Kamwah as if he  
had just become aware of his presence, and then he smiled.  
  
"Listen to the song of the warrior," he whispered, motioning to the other  
two men as they continued humming the tune. Then he put words to the tune:  
  
"Fire streaks across the sky, the battle has begun...  
"Bring the sword, and the Batleth, bring the fire and the stick...  
"Bring the opposer, bring his arms, let the arrows fly thick...  
"Bring the sheild, bring the bow...  
"Bring fire, friend and foe...  
"and bring the blessings of the Gods, and let the victor be our swords!"  
  
He smiled again and then eyed the young boy curiously.  
"I know that song!" said Kamwah abruptly, even though it was the first time  
he had heard it.  
"Really, now?" the old man asked, with an amused look on his face. "You  
must be quite old, my young friend, as this song has not been sung for over  
a hundred years."  
"Still, I -- I know it!" protested Kamwah.  
"Indeed. Know you my name also?"  
Kamwah shook his head.  
"Ah, no matter....it is of no import in any case. Now, you came here for a  
question. Have you been given the answer?"  
"I wish to know who Worf, the Son of Maug was," declared Kamwah.  
"Oh? And why is that? After all, was he not that traitor who deserted the  
Empire to go work for the Federation?"  
"Thats what I have heard. But I have also heard, from my respected father,  
that he was a mighty warrior, and he died the most honorable death."  
  
The old man listened with tilted head and then chuckled softly.  
"Well well well my young friend, you are quite the wise man. What is your  
name, then?"  
Kamwah though a few seconds, then he straightened himsef up and said  
proudly "I am Kamwah, son of Jorel."  
"Indeed. And if Jorels honor was not intact why would he send you to me?"  
"My father is an old man who did not die the death of a Klingon. But he is  
dead anyway."  
"You do not think that living to an old age is Klingon?"  
"Not you," said Kamwah hurriedly, "I meant, these new customs about  
'evolved' life and all are false. They are not Klingon ways and can never  
be. A Klingon must be like Kah-less, or must not be a Klingon at all."  
The old man grinned. Then he leaned forward and sprinkled a fine powdery  
substance onto the flickering fire that sat in between him and Kamwah. As  
he did so the fire leapt up into life.  
  
"Let me tell you about the story of Worf, the son of Maug," he began. "I  
was but a boy when I met him, and yet I knew that here was a Klingon who  
truly was worthy to sit at Kah-less'es right side when he rules again. It  
was only to be a few months later when Worf died the death that you speak  
of, and found his way to Stovol-Kohr . . ."  
  
***  
  
"It was a cold cold night. On the Westernmost hemisphere of the planet  
Earth, which is the homeworld of the Humans, the nights get very cold, with  
dry winds and most low temperatures. The Humans wrap themselves tightly in  
clothing made from animal and other syntheic materials, when they are  
outside. Inside their buildings, they have environmental controls which can  
be adjusted to whatever temperature and humidity you feel is appropriate.  
Even a Klingon can breathe normally within one of these enclosures. But  
outside, no, outside you would have to be a hardy warrior well seasoned to  
survive for even a few hours. The blizzards and piercing winds are enough  
to kill any unprotected being, Human or Klingon, within hours.  
  
"I was visiting Earth with my father. It was a summit conference. There  
were many Federation members there. It was a lively time, with many  
exhibitions and displays for all concerned. The Klingons had rented one of  
the largest holosuites, and were displaying the martial arts exercises and  
mock battles in the holosuites. I remember going into one of them  
excitedly, and standing on the sidelines and watching as two Klingon  
warriors exercised with real Batleths. Many of the Humans were transfixed  
and amazed. Most of them had never even seen a Klingon before, and here we  
were, in all our glory. My father led me out of the holosuites in time for  
the conference. It was a long and tiring affair, and I remember little of  
it, being a boy my interests were elsewhere. I managed to sneak out of the  
conference hall, the guards were just a little amused at me creeping out in  
the middle of the conference, and found my way back to the holosuites. They  
were empty this time. Only the program was still running. The scene was a  
campground from the stories of Kah-less. It was immaculate in the last  
detail. I wandered around, staring in awe at all the computer-generated  
details. I could even smell the fires, and breathe in the heavy humid air  
of the homeworld. And then I bumped into someone. I started. I had not  
expected anyone to be there at this time. I swung round and faced the  
person. It was a boy, not unlike me, except that he was different somehow.  
He was half Klingon and half Human. I stared at his peculiar features.  
  
"'Who are you?' he asked me. I told him my name and asked his.  
"'I am Alexander,' he replied simply. 'Want to play?'  
"'Alexander? What kind of a name is that for a Klingon?' I asked  
incredulously.  
"'Its the one I was given to by my parents,' he replied, a little confused.  
Later, I learnt that he had lived on Earth for most of his life. And he had  
never been to the Klingon Home World. That was surprising. I had never met  
a Klingon who had never even been to the Home World. As we got to know each  
other, I learnt that he was the son of Worf.  
  
"It was on the third day, when the conference was almost over, that there  
was the attack. It was a most unexpected and surprise assault, one worthy  
of the Romulans. I was outside in the cold with Alexander, playing an Earth  
form of our own martial art, called Ju-Jitsu. And even as we wrestled,  
there from the skies swooped down two Romulan warbirds. To this day I  
remember those huge ships breaking through the thick clouds and hovering,  
only for a second, then swooping down like great Schakta Eagles, swiftly  
and silently, down towards the convention center. Alexander and I went  
running towards the buildings, screaming and shouting to warn the guards.  
But we could not reach the buildings. Even as we ran, the first photon  
torpedo flew just meters above our heads -- so close that the whole ground  
was lit up with the red flare and we felt the burning heat of the speeding  
torpedo -- and shot into the building before us. It exploded into flames  
and debris as soon as the torpedo impacted. Two more followed, levelling  
the building to the ground. By now people had become aware, and there were  
many people outside, scattered on the ground, around at different places.  
We backed away from the burning building in front of us and tried for one  
of the other buildings. But by now the second warbird had also reached  
ground level, and was hovering so high above us. With their photon  
torpedoes the Romulans made short work of the few buildings that were left.  
Meanwhile planetary security had been alerted, and were on their way. The  
people who had managed to make it out of the convention center were  
scattered and confused. The warbirds hovered above us so deadly, even  
blocking out the pale light that came from the sky, so that we were  
enveloped in the darkness of the shadow of the ships. We discovered that  
the president of the Federation had been killed.  
  
"Some of the higher ranking Starfleet officials began some attempts at  
organizing us into groups. But there was little hope. The ships above us  
now were silent while the building burned before us with rapid flames. We  
knew that our deaths were only a matter of minutes away. The Romulans were  
perhaps enjoying their moments of terrorizing the citizens of the  
Federation and destroying their conference and killing their citizens.  
During all this commotion I had not had time to talk to Alexander much,  
other than the few words we had shouted to each other while trying to run  
to the buildings and them away from them. But now, when we had gathered  
into a small group with some of the other survivors, bleeding and dazed, I  
looked at Alexander. I believe I have never seen a face like the one I saw  
that day. He was not crying or groaning in pain. And he had not a trace of  
fear on his face. But instead, I saw his jaw set hard, and his eyes filled  
with determination and resolve. And yes, I believe I saw anger in what I  
took to be this frail half-Human half-Klingon boy.  
  
"I asked him if he was not afraid.  
"'My father will make them pay for what they have done today,' he said to  
me.  
"'But what of us?' I asked him, pointing to the large humming ship that  
hovered above us, 'surely we are to die soon, in a matter of minutes.'  
"'No matter!' he shouted, above the droning of the loud engines overhead,  
'We will die fighting like brave Klingon warriors!'  
"And he raised his fist high above his head. I saw the courage in my friend  
and I too took heart. I remembered all the lessons that my father had  
taught me, they all made sense now, every single one of them. I too, raised  
my fist, and so did others, after seeing us.  
  
"Some of the Humans and people of other species were badly hurt and were  
lying on the ground. There was one doctor there, a Human, from the  
Federation, who was trying to help these people, but he had no medical  
equipment. Still, he was doing a fine job. He was himself hurt bady, there  
was blood streaming down his face, and he had no warm clothes to sheild him  
from the icy winds that were blowing hard against us. His blue Starfleet  
uniform was torn and stained in blood. But he kept running from one injured  
person to another, giving them the best sort of treatment for their wounds  
that he could. Looking at this man I felt touched, and being relatively  
unhurt, I went to him and asked him if he needed a hand. He looked at me  
with delirious eyes, and then pointed to a Vulcan woman who was lying right  
by our feet with a gaping hole in her abdomen.  
"'Here,' he cried, giving me a cloth, 'don't let the wound grow!'  
"And he took the cloth in my hands and pressed it onto her wound so that  
the bleeding would cease. He instructed me to press hard and not to let go.  
I nodded. Then he ran off to assisst another person in distress. I learned  
later the name of this man, and was able to honor him for his courageuos  
work while facing imminent death. This doctor was called Julian Bashir.  
  
"While we sat and huddled in the chaos that surrounded us, suddenly the bay  
doors of the hugs warship above us opened, and a stream of pale blue and  
orange light surrounded us. It had a faint glow to it, and was a little  
warm. A murmur and cry rose among the huddled people. Some thought that we  
might be vaporized right then and there. But later we realized that they  
intended to take us for their prisoners, maybe even use some of the high  
ranking officals for hostages. I looked up at the light from the warbird,  
which was now reaching a glaring intensity. Then the Vulcan woman who lay  
on the ground beside me, whose wound I was tending, said something.  
  
"'Are you afraid, little warrior?' she asked. She addressed me in my own  
tongue, which I was surprised to hear.  
"'No,' I said, and then reconsidered. 'Yes'  
"She smiled. She lifted her hand and placed it upon my own which was  
pressing the cloth into her wound.  
"'Do not be,' she said, 'you are a brave warrior. I can see that you will  
move a long way forward.'  
"'Not if we are to die here,' I replied, looking up again. And then she  
said something, but it was in a low voice, and in her own Vulcan tongue, so  
that I did not catch the words, but it seemed like an incantation of some  
sort. And after that a warmth seemed to flow from her hand into my body. It  
was a strange sensation. But ever since that day I have been most  
respectful of the Vulcans and their knowledge of the Universal Truths,  
which have evaded most other species, even the Klingons.  
  
"People began to scream and shout when the glare from the warbirds engines  
got to be very high. But just then, there was a sound, like that of  
thunder. A loud clap of thunder. The ship above us jolted, it lurched  
forward and down, for a second I thought it was going to crush us. But it  
lurched back up again, and then began to climb in altitude. The light from  
its bay doors vanished. It moved upwards and slowly veered off. Far in the  
distance, we saw a ship -- it was a Federation ship. I looked over to  
Alexander, he was waving and shouting and pointing. The Federation ship was  
the Defiant, his fathers ship.  
  
"As I looked, the Defiant let loose a torrent of photon torpedoes and  
phasor blasts at the two warbirds, which turned and attacked. But they were  
large ships, and maneuvered clumsily in the thick Earth atmosphere, while  
the Defiant was a smaller, more agile ship, and was running circles around  
the two lumbering warbirds. One was soon damaged so that it had to take an  
escape route. The other, however, rammed the Defiant, and both ships lost  
altitude control. They came crashing down a few kilometers away from us,  
but being so near the surface, did not explode into flames. Those of us who  
could still walk ran towards the wrecks. Even as we did so, we saw the  
crews of the ships come out, armed and ready for battle. There were only a  
few Romulans -- a skeleton crew aboard the warbird. They came out with  
phasors firing. They were dressed in thick warm overcoats bearing the  
Romulan insignia. But out of the Defiant came Klingons! Imagine my surprise  
when I saw Klingons wearing Starfleet uniforms, bearing Batleths and even  
the Human swords! They attacked the Romulans head on, taking the phasor  
blasts at point blank range. Many Klingons died a glorious death that day.  
The doctor named Bashir was close behind me and managed to get inside the  
Defiant to get medical supplies he needed for the wounded people. Meanwhile  
jus outside the wrecks of the two ships the phasor battle degenerated into  
a hand to hand battle. And that is where I saw him, Worf, the son of Maug.  
He was a tall, strong Klingon. And he fought with such skill and power that  
the Romulans fell like a field of wheat before his Batleth. He was  
ploughing the way for the other soldiers to enter the field of battle and  
engage the enemy. I watched in awe, standing the the cold and blizzard,  
while this battle went on.  
  
"Soon there were only a handful of the warriors left standing, on both  
sides. The gound was littered with corpses all around us. I ran to and fro,  
helping to transport the medical supplies to Bashir. Every now and then a  
Romulan attempted to break out from the engaging forces and make an attack  
on one of us, and we would pounce on him, as those that came to attack us  
were usually unarmed. But through it all, Work was like a swift and silent  
dancer, swinging his Batleth with energy and skill. He did not stop, even  
for a second, until the last Romulan lay dead at his feet. And when it was  
over, he stood among the littered corpses of the dead Romulans and raised  
his Batleth to the skies, and shouted his victory. It was a victory that  
was echoed among all the Federation survivors, Klingon and non-Klingon  
alike. That was my first glimpse of Worf, son of Maug.  
  
"There were many losses on the Federation side too. The Defiant was almost  
ruined. And nearly all her crew had been killed. Yet, our lives had been  
spared; those of the high ranking Federation officials, those of Alexander  
and mine, those of that Vulcan woman who had so much faith in me, those of  
the doctor who cared not for his own life when it was almost at an end, but  
of helping others. Soon other Federation ships arrived, a medical ship  
among them, and the survivors were tended to with proper medical care.  
  
"I remember looking back through the blizzard at the tall form of Worf,  
standing alone, victorious, among his fallen enemy, still holding the  
Batleth dripping with blood onto the fresh powdery snow, while Bashir  
tromped through the snow running towards him. Then I realized that they  
knew each other, for Worfs features changed when he saw Bashir, and he  
greeted him warmly. They exchanged a few words, Bashir thanking him for his  
timely arrival, and then together they walked back towards the rest of the  
group."  
  
***  
  
Kamwah sat wide-eyed.  
"This was the Federation?" he asked incredulously. The old man grinned.  
"Are you surprised?" he asked.  
"They are worthy of being Klingon!" declared Kamwah.  
"Indeed, and that is why you can see that Worf chose the path that he did.  
He saw that the Federation was an opportunity to truly be Klingon. For do  
you know what it means to be Klingon? Its not meeting in our chambers on  
our Home World that makes us Klingon. Nor is it attacking territories and  
planets and looting and conquering that makes us Klingon. War is war, and  
war on its own never made a Klingon what he is. It is not sitting togther  
in our own worlds that make us Klingon either. To have the courage and the  
strength to go out into the foreign place called the Federation, or any  
other place, and to practice the ways of Kah-less and the great warriors,  
so that the other species may see and learn who we are and what we are --  
that is Klingon. For did not Kah-less himself preach that we must always  
show the other who we are, and then only are perceptions shattered like so  
many fragments of glass onto the hard ground. When the Humans or Ferengi  
look upon you, they fear you out of their own misconceptions. But not  
today. For the man named Worf showed himself to them, and showed who and  
what he was, and when they learned, they began to respect him, for even the  
Humans have something to learn from Kah-less. Indeed, all species have  
something to learn from Kah-less."  
"Do you know of any Human scholars of Kah-less?" asked Kamwah.  
"I know of many," replied the old man.  
  
Kamwah nodded. Then he rose to take his leave.  
"I will join the Federation, honored elder," he said.  
The old man smiled.  
"Perhaps when you have time you will come here again, and learn more about  
the legend of the warrior."  
  
Kamwah nodded. "I will."  
  
"Kaplah!" said the old warrior, his eyes gleaming with pride at the young  
warrior.  
  
  
T h e E n d  
(c) Jasjit Singh, 1996  
  



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